


Stitches

by Sylvestris



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvestris/pseuds/Sylvestris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, what’s the story?” Mike asks, although he can guess about eighty-five per cent of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WithoutAQualmOfConscience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithoutAQualmOfConscience/gifts).



If Mike had a choice, he’d rather owe Saul money than favours. Owing Saul a favour is why he’s on Saul’s doorstep at a quarter to midnight, following a phone call in which Saul, sounding rather shaken, asked him to confirm that he knew how to stitch up a wound, and insisted that he hadn’t gotten mixed up in anything (“well, not anything you don’t already know about”) and had merely suffered a “household accident”, the details of which were unimportant, and anyway, he was going to leave the front door unlocked.

He finds Saul sitting on his couch looking decidedly green around the gills, his shirt untucked and his tie loosened, his left hand swaddled in a thick, bloodstained towel and held up at shoulder level. Lydia’s next to him, equally pale, valiantly putting pressure on his wound with one gloved hand and holding an ice pack to her own forehead with the other. A bottle of champagne sits on the coffee table, its neck severed, next to two empty flutes, a steak knife and an open first aid kit; he can make out glittering flecks of broken glass in the carpet.

“So, what’s the story?” Mike asks, although he can guess about eighty-five per cent of it. Saul sighs.

“I tried to— look, it was a dumb trick, okay, and I shouldn’t have done it— I tried to do that thing where you open a champagne bottle with a knife, and I must’ve gotten the angle wrong or something, because when the top came off I cut my hand up pretty good. So Lydia went and got the first aid kit and tried to patch me up, only she— she got a little uncomfortable on account of…”

“You don’t need to tell him about this,” Lydia mutters.

“…y’know, there being blood everywhere, and trust me, so was I, but, hey, I told her to take it easy! I said, if you’re feeling faint, go and sit down ‘cause there’s broken glass all over the place and if you pass out you’ll hurt yourself too, and then where will we be? You know what the first rule of first aid is? Don’t add to the number of casualties. Am I right?”

The only thing missing from this little tableau is a couple of lines of coke on the table. In fact, maybe those _are_ missing. Lydia's pupils look normal, but Saul's talking awfully fast.

“There was glass _inside his hand_ ,” Lydia says, in a tone of barely contained horror. “And since he insisted on calling you instead of going to the emergency room, I bandaged it for him.”

“You did, huh?" Mike says, motioning for Lydia to move so he can take her place. She slumps into a nearby recliner, looking done in. He knows she took some basic first aid classes around the time she adopted her daughter, but there’s knowing what to do and then there’s having the stomach for it.

“She left the glass in there,” Saul says, sounding a little weaker, as Mike takes his injured hand. “I mean, I think. I was trying not to look.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do when there’s a foreign object,” Lydia hisses, and looks to Mike for confirmation until he nods.

“Really? God.” Saul shudders. "Anyway, she wrapped it up and told me to put pressure on it, and again I said, forgive me, you’re looking a little shaky there, maybe you should, you know, put your head between your knees for a minute. And did she take my advice?”

“I was _going_ to, I just wanted to wash my hands…”

“She keeled over onto the bathroom floor. With the door shut behind her.” Saul shoots Lydia an accusatory look. “Meanwhile, I was still bleeding there, and all I could do was yell through the door until she woke up, at which point she asked _me_ what the hell had just happened. But, y’know, other than that, we’re both good.”

Lydia slides the hand holding the ice pack down to cover her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Mike asks her.

“I’m fine. It’s just a bruise.”

“You wanna stay in that chair for now?” Mike suggests.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay.” Mike picks up the first aid kit— he came with everything he’d need in his bag, but if Saul has supplies it makes sense to use them— and helps Saul to his feet. “Bathroom down the hall?”

“Y-yeah,” says Saul, steeling himself. “Listen, uh— Lydia, I appreciate it, really. If you hadn’t been here, I’d… well, I’m not good with this type of thing, so. Thanks.”

Lydia opens her eyes and looks surprised. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry about all the yelling,” he adds, just before Mike steers him out of the room.


End file.
